The Case of the Still heart
by Anozira
Summary: A when a healthy man dies suddenly of a heart attack, leaving behind an enormous fortune, his daughter brings the case to Holmes and Watson. But without any clear motive, suspects, or cause of death, the case seems hopeless. Can Holmes solve the case?
1. The New Client

_Welcome to my lair! Muahahahahahahaha! Woops, wrong fanfic, sorry. Hang on, let me reorient myself…_

_Ah there we go. Before we get started with the story, I have a few items of business to take care of. First, the disclaimer:_ I do not own Sherlock Holmes or Dr. Watson. They are (despite what we all may want to believe) fictional characters created by the brilliant mind of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I, along with many other Baker Street Irregulars, am in his debt. _So much for the disclaimer, now on to item two. This story is based on the stories by Conan Doyle and the writings of William S. Barring-Gould and June Thompson. Unfortunately, I am away at college and am without my copy of The Annotated Sherlock Holmes (sob, it was too heavy to take on the plane. I am just as much of a stickler for accuracy as the next Holmes fanatic, so if I make a mistake, forgive me, and tell me about it! I would love your comments._

_So, buckle your seat belts and make sure your tray tables are in their upright and locked positions. Ladies and Gentlemen, I present for your perusal:_

The Case of the Still Heart

Chapter One: The New Client

Of all the days to be raining, this was positively the worst. The grey sky loomed out the window, pouring vast quantities of the cold, miserable liquid onto the undeserving ground below, and I sat inside, nursing my old wound and hating every blasted drop. It wasn't only the grey weather that had put me in such a foul mood. Holmes and I had just returned the evening before after solving a particularly challenging case. The solution had been gratifying when it came, but reaching it was a long and arduous process that left us both physically and emotionally drained. I wanted nothing more than to wander the Strand in the sunshine, letting a pleasant day heal my shattered sense of peace, but the fickle London weather had defeated me. Instead of wandering the streets and parks of London in the sunshine, I was trapped in the sitting room of the quarters Holmes and I shared at Baker Street, listening to the strains of Holmes's violin, staring at the grey morning and reflecting on the cruelness of nature.

"Oh do stop brooding, Watson. Or do you expect to stop the rain merely by threatening it?" The sound of Holmes's voice jolted me out of my reverie. I felt a stab of irritation at his callous disregard for my discomfort, knowing he must be feeling similar, before I remembered that Holmes did not trouble himself with such earthly matters. Such things "clouded the logic"

"Come off it, Holmes, you're just as irritated as I am by the rain." My reply was slightly more acid in tone than I had meant it to be. I put it down to my foul temper and turned back toward the window.

Holmes snorted, "You have no control over the weather, Watson. You do, however, have control over your mental faculties. Moods are self-imposed and have nothing what-so-ever to do with the weather out of doors." I was busy thinking up a cutting remark to make in reply when a hansom cab pulled up to the curb under my window and a figure disembarked. My vexation at Holmes's manners dissipated completely at the prospect of a client and I voiced my hope aloud. "There seems to be a client heading for our door, Holmes."

He carefully set the Stradivarius in its case before joining me at the window. "A woman in black in mourning for a close family member, her father I'd wager."

"I wonder what brings her to our door."

"We shall find out soon enough, I fancy." Sure enough, a knock sounded on the door, followed by the sound of voices and feet ascending the stairs. In less than five minutes, Mrs. Hudson had ushered in our visitor and left to make tea. I offered the lady a chair near the fire, which she took wordlessly as Holmes and I took our places on either side of her.

It was some moments until we were all settled comfortably before the fire with cups of tea, and I took the opportunity to make some of my own deductions about our visitor. Any fool could infer that she was in mourning from the modest black dress she wore, though how Holmes had deduced that the departed was her father was beyond me. For my own part, I was surprised at her flawless poise. She sat with an ease and comfort in the unfamiliar surroundings that gave lie to the distress the death of her father must have caused her. I marveled at the strength of this woman, who could enter the home of an eccentric detective as easily as the home of a friend. I could, however, detect a slight flaw in her composure. Her eyes betrayed her, beautiful blue eyes the color of the sea, which seemed to exude sadness and something more hidden, desperation perhaps.

"My condolences on the death of your father," Holmes said in greeting, "The holiday season is a difficult time to lose a loved one."

The lady gasped slightly at Holmes's inferences. Although I have long been accustomed to Holmes pulling intimate facts concerning one's past out of seemingly thin air, his deductions never cease to impress me.

"I had been warned of your penchant for producing facts out of nothing, Mr. Holmes, but I had not expected such remarkable accuracy." Our visitor stated quietly once she had recovered her composure. "If I did not know better, I should say you are a magician and not a detective at all."

"My good lady, my deductions are based on pure logic, not magic. Your mourning dress is relatively new and is of a style that is not inexpensive. Obviously you have come into some money recently, thus I deduce that you are an only child and the loved one for whom you mourn was your father. However, despite the newness of your dress, the hem shows some small signs of wear. See, Watson, the small threads fraying ever so slightly around the edge? From these I deduced the death of your father to have happened sometime within the last month, and asked that you accept my somewhat belated condolences."

"Thank you. Yes, you are quite correct. He died on Christmas Eve, in fact. No doubt you also know that I live in a flat in London now."

"I had deduced as much, yes." Holmes replied easily.

"I wonder if there is anything I can tell you that you do not already know. Perhaps you have already deduced the nature of my problem and by some miracle have the solution for me and I may go home a happy and contented woman." Her words were spoken with an easy humor, but colored with the vaguest hint of desperation. I marveled again at her poise which nearly effectively disguised the need for help that had brought her to our door.

"I am afraid, Ms. Violet Shields…" It took the lady a minute to register Holmes's use of her proper name, which had not before been mentioned, but when she did, her reaction surprised me. Instead of the gasp that had been her response to Holmes's earlier deduction, she greeted this with a low, musical laugh.

"Mr. Holmes, you are truly a wonder, but is this not rather forward of you considering that we have not been introduced?"

"I do beg your pardon, but if you did not wish us to know your name, then you should have taken better care not to display it on your handkerchief."

"I assure you I take no offense, you are very observant, Mr. Holmes," she said appreciatively.

"So I have been told. As I was saying, I am afraid that you overestimate my powers of deduction. Perhaps the solution to your case will be readily apparent and I shall be able to solve it from my armchair, perhaps not. But I must have the facts of the case if I am to be of any use to you."

"Of course you must, I was only striving, in vain obviously, for a little bit of humor on this bleak morning. I sincerely doubt, however, that even the great Sherlock Holmes will be able to solve my case from the comfort of his armchair. The police have all but laughed me out of their offices at Scotland Yard."

"The police, in my experience, often laugh off cases they mistakenly deem unimportant. They can be foolish, it is of no consequence to me. Please recount the facts of your case in as much detail as you can. The conclusion of a case often depends on the smallest of details." As Holmes spoke these words he slouched down into his chair, half closing his eyes in the manner I so frequently saw him take when preparing to listen to a case.

"Very well, as you may have perceived, it relates to the death of my father not too long ago. The doctors say he died of heart failure. I know, however, that my father was a healthy, active man, who never suffered from a weak heart, and though the doctors claim his death was a natural one, I am disinclined to believe them. I have no proof, however, that my father was murdered, no suspicions as to who might have killed him, or even why."

"Why then, do you suspect foul play?"

"Because, Mr. Holmes, healthy men do not drop dead of heart attacks so suddenly. My father…" here her voice faltered slightly, and seemed to catch in her throat. I rose and wordlessly poured her a brandy at the sideboard, handing it to her with a reassuring smile. She took a small sip before continuing. "My father was not well liked. He was…he could be called a miser, I suppose. He tended to shut off the world. Even I felt distanced from him. You see, my mother died when I was quite young and as soon as I grew old enough, he sent me away to boarding school. I believe he was very much in love with my mother and never really the same after she died."

"Tell me about the household. What servants did he employ?"

"My father kept a very small house, a housekeeper to do the cooking and the cleaning, her daughter, who works as a maid, and his manservant, who served him longer than I can remember. The housekeeper and her daughter are good people, honest country folk who have never had an evil thought in their lives, and Bentworth is the perfect English butler. He was absolutely devoted to my father."

"You have, of course, been home since his death."

"Yes, briefly, for the funeral." She spoke this quietly, like a confession.

"And how did you find the house?"

"Was there anything amiss, do you mean? I spent very little time in the house itself, but from what I remember, I saw nothing amiss at all, nothing out of place. Of course it wasn't as clean as it usually is, and Bentworth was in less than his perfect form, but that is to be expected when the lord of the manor dies, is it not?"

"Indeed." Holmes rose and paced to the fire, collecting his battered clay pipe and packing it with tobacco thoughtfully.

Miss Shields spoke to his back in despair, "It seems there isn't much basis for a murder at all, is there. Perhaps I am merely being paranoid." She rose to go, but Holmes stopped her.

"It is indeed a very singular situation," He replied, "But I have found in my experience that a woman's intuition is not a thing to be brushed aside lightly. They have an annoying propensity for being vaguely accurate."

"Then you will take the case?" Her whole manner had changed suddenly, the desperation I had sensed seemed to fade slightly, replaced with a small glow of hope.

"I will look into it, yes. I believe the best course of action would be to return to the scene of the crime. You will arrange a return home to the estate?"

"Yes, I am sure Mary will be able to prepare the rooms quickly, we could leave as soon as tomorrow." Something changed again in her manner, and she spoke with an emotion I could not identify; reticence, perhaps? "There is a train tomorrow morning at nine-thirty; we could be at the house by mid afternoon, perhaps."

"That will be quite satisfactory. We shall see you tomorrow then." And with the conclusion of this last item of business, Holmes moved towards the door to signal the end of her visit. Ms. Shields followed him, bidding us both goodbye with a smile. Despite her air of relief, however, she left a strange sense of anxiety in her wake that puzzled and worried me.


	2. The Misanthrope

_Disclaimer: I don't own Holmes, Watson, or any other references to Conan Doyle's stories you may find in here. Special thanks to Moliere for the chapter title, which comes from one of his plays._

Chapter 2: The Misanthrope

The next morning found Holmes and I on a train headed for the Shields family estate, isolated in the beautiful English countryside. I relished the idea of escaping the suffocating London air, anticipating the tremendous relief of being free of the dark, oppressive buildings and thick, smothering fog that characterized the great cesspool. However, neither of my companions seemed to share my sentiments. Holmes, ever attentive to the job at hand, sat contemplating the carpet, clutching his empty pipe in his hand and tapping it against his teeth. His taciturn mood was familiar to me, but I found it rather irritating, none the less.

Miss Shields sat opposite us, staring out the window, and just as uncommunicative as Holmes. She seemed less than thrilled to be traveling back to her birthplace, but considering the circumstances in which she had last visited, I found this hardly surprising.

Needless to say, the train ride seemed interminable to me, and by the time we had rumbled into the station, I found myself entertaining a mild case of claustrophobia. The station at which we alighted was so small it was almost nonexistent. Luckily, we did not have to wait there long, for a carriage waited for us on the other side of the little hut that passed for the waiting area.

Its driver silently took our luggage, piling it on the back of the vehicle. In no time we were being bumped and jostled down a dirt road toward our final destination. After 30 minutes of driving, Miss Shields turned to Holmes and me, acknowledging our presence for the first time since we had boarded the train. She indicated the landscape outside the window with a nod of her head. "You are now entering my father's estate. Everything you see from now until we reach the house belongs to my family." She stated it matter-of-factly with no hint of pride or shame in her voice.

The Shields estate was quite extensive, and soon I found myself wondering if the house was disguised to blend into the trees, we passed so many forests and groves. I said as much to Violet, hoping to lighten the mood slightly, and she smiled back at me. "The estate was father's pride and joy, he spent his life expanding and cultivating his land. It was one of his two passions," she said a trifle wistfully.

Holmes looked up at her sharply. "What was the other one?" He enquired.

"Middle eastern artifacts. There is a large collection of them at the house. I will show them to you when we get there, if you are interested." At her mention of this strange passion of her father's, our reason for being in the country resurfaced in my mind. This was not a weekend outing, but a serious murder investigation, I reminded myself forcefully. Could this peculiar hobby have some bearing on the case I wondered? The manner in which Violet made the statement told me that she had been thinking similarly.

"Middle Eastern artifacts? Singular." Holmes replied, almost under his breath. It was all the confirmation that I needed.

We spoke no more the rest of the drive and then suddenly, when I felt certain I would throw myself screaming from the carriage if we were forced to travel a moment longer in the beautiful, but seemingly endless forest that surrounded the mansion, we drove out of the shade of the trees and into the waning sunlight of the day.

To say the estate was grand would be a gross understatement. It was an enormous and imposing building of stone, as unfriendly a home as I had ever seen. It accomplished its purpose perfectly, however, and I was immediately struck by the obvious wealth and grandeur of the family that inhabited it. I regarded Miss Violet Shields from my new perspective, wondering how she had managed to remain as modest as she appeared to be when she had been brought up in such a structure.

"Welcome to Blandwood Mansion." Miss Shields said with a touch of irony in her voice.

"Blandwood Mansion?" I echoed, wondering what in the world was bland about the mansion or, for that matter, the woods that surrounded it.

Miss Shields seemed to understand the meaning behind my words and she laughed at my consternation. "Evidence of my father's rare, and rather off, sense of humor. There is a kind of wood found in the forest which the natives call 'bland wood' because of its dull-grey appearance. It is not found many other places in the world. The mansion is named after this colloquialism. It is a strikingly inappropriate name, is it not?" She asked with a mischievous grin.

"Indeed, it is quite an oxymoron." I replied, sharing the joke. Holmes nodded in agreement and we stared at the austere structure in silent mirth. The carriage pulled to a stop outside the mansion's front doors, which opened on cue seemingly of their own accord.

The interior of Blandwood Mansion matched the exterior perfectly. Its high vaulted ceilings and rich tapestry-covered walls gave the impression of stepping into the medieval castle of a feudal lord. The hall which we entered seemed even larger and more uncomfortable that it might have felt had it been more richly furnished, but the only furniture in the entryway, which was large enough to hold the carriage and horses easily, was a small end table and three glass cases. Upon the end table, there sat a fresh bouquet of flowers, obviously picked earlier in the day for the benefit of the guests, a small attempt to make the room seem more welcoming. Sadly, it failed entirely for the splash of bright color seemed oddly out of place, and more disconcerting than friendly.

Holmes nodded over to the glass cases saying to me "You see, Watson, evidence of the late Mr. Shield's passion for middle eastern curios. A mere sample of his collection I dare say." He was right, of course. The cases were the most prominent objects in the room, and they were all three filled with a variety of pot shards, tools, and small statues organized into neatly labeled rows.

A man I had neglected to notice when we first entered, moved to shut the doors behind us. He was every inch the gentleman's gentleman from his stiff and slightly old-fashioned suit to his emotionless expression, the kind of butler I had always associated with appallingly rich English families. "Welcome back, Miss Shields. I hope you find everything to your satisfaction?"

"I do Bradley, thank you. You have kept the place up admirably." The strange expression had found its way back into her eyes. There was some secret about her life, some memory that this mansion sparked in her. I remembered the anxiety I had sensed when she had departed Baker Street yesterday, and wondered what she was hiding.

"Shall I show your guests to their rooms?" Bradley, the perfect butler, asked.

"Have their cases taken up, Bradley, I shall show them to their rooms myself." Miss Shields replied, "I will give you a brief tour of the mansion on our way," she said, directing her statement at Holmes, thus effectively turning her back on Bradley, who left unobtrusively.

"Come this way." She said, leading us up a set of stairs. "I will not show you the whole house now, I daresay you won't have the stamina for such an endeavor until you have eaten and rested. There are enough corridors and staircases in this estate to keep an army in good training," she said, laughing at the joke she had made. She had a musical laugh that seemed to fill the space with light. Holmes chuckled and I glanced at him briefly. His normally cold, piercing grey eyes seemed to glow with fire. I marveled at the red light of the sunset streaming in through the high windows and when I looked back at Holmes, the strange light was gone. An effect of the setting sun, I thought, or perhaps I had imagined it. Sherlock Holmes avoided strong emotion; it clouded his mind like "grit in a sensitive instrument" as he so often told me.

In spite of her assurances to the contrary, it seemed a long time before we had finished the tour. We had very little time to settle into our rooms before dinner, and Holmes didn't even bother to change. The meal was not, by any means, a sumptuous feast, but it was edible and filling so I had no cause for complaint. After the meal was finished, we retired to a drawing room almost as sparsely furnished as the front entranceway. Holmes curled himself into an uncomfortable-looking armchair, which he pulled up to the fire and fixed our hostess with a steady gaze. "Tell me about your father, Miss Shields."

"My father?" She faltered, as if searching for something to say. "I have told you the important facts already, what more do you need to know?" Her voice had taken on a defensive quality that seemed very inappropriate to the situation.

"Let me decide what is important and what is not, the smallest details can solve a case." Holmes said gently. She looked at him and sighed.

"I knew it would have to come up sooner or later. I suppose I should have told you from the start, foolish of me to try and conceal it. Of course you cannot hope to solve the case without all the background. I…I have never been close to my father. After my mother died, he pushed away everything that reminded him of her. It is an old story, this kind of thing has happened many times, but no matter how many times I reminded myself of that, it never seemed to comfort me."

"Of course not," Holmes said, his voice and eyes registered only sympathy.

"As soon as I was old enough he sent me away to boarding school. When I would come back to this house on the holidays, he would always meet me at the station with a smile and a hug, and that would be all I saw of him until he took me back to the station a week later. This house never felt like home to me. I was isolated here, and more alone than I was at boarding school. I am grateful to him now, for it taught me to be independent, and that skill has served me well over the years."

"Now," she stood as she spoke, "you must excuse me. I fear I must get some sleep or I shall fall asleep in my chair, and that is not a pleasant experience in these chairs, believe me. I only managed to do it once and in the morning I vowed never to let it happen again," she said laughing, lightening the dark mood her story had cast on the room. "Good night gentlemen."

We murmured a good night to her as she made to leave the room. At the door she turned to look back at us, a mischievous glint in her eyes, "If you do not want to risk getting lost on your way back to your rooms, ring for Bradley. He has made maps of the house which I have often found quite useful." Her laughter rang in the room long after she had closed the door.

After she had left, I stirred in my seat and turned to Holmes, who was staring at the fire deep in thought. "I think I shall go to bed too, Holmes. I am impossibly tired after that long train ride."

"Traveling does tend to tire one out, I find. Singular, is it not? Why should sitting still for eight hours feel just as tiring as going for a brisk jog?"

"A valid point, Holmes."

"Some mysteries I fear I shall never solve," he muttered to himself, bringing his pipe out of his pocket. I took this as a sign that he planned to sit up a while longer, and stood to take my leave.

"Do not tire yourself out before you have even begun to investigate the mystery, Holmes," I cautioned.

"I began to investigate the mystery from the moment Miss Shields entered our rooms at Baker Street, Watson," he replied with a raised eyebrow.

"You might try, for once, operating on a decent night's sleep. Even a machine cannot function without fuel."

"You are right, Watson, as always. I promise I shall go to bed at a reasonable hour. I shall even wash behind my ears," he said sarcastically.

"That will not be necessary, Holmes," I replied, exasperated and took my leave, knowing full well I would probably find him sitting in that same chair when I woke in the morning.

A/N: Thanks to my reviewers. I love comments, criticisms, praise, whatever you feed me as long as it's feed back!

Lowell: I would never dream of creating a Lowell voodoo doll! (Besides I used up all my supplies on my drama teacher who assigned a 12-page play analysis due in 2 weeks. Naturally I'm writing this instead.) Your corrections were very helpful. Did you notice I tried to fix them? Keep reviewing, and don't apologize! Be as blunt and nit-picky as you want. Sometimes it's the only way I'll improve.

Baskerville Beauty: The run-on sentence is my arch enemy and we have been doing battle for many, many years. I shall try, for the sake of my readers, to vanquish my foe. Then I'll write a great novel about our struggles and dedicate it to you :o)

Hermione Holmes: YOU ROCK! You picked up on something that's quickly going to become a theme in this thing-Violet's inconsistency. I wanted to hint at it obliquely from the start, and I'm so happy someone actually caught on to it:-D Keep your eyes on her, she's gonna become even more of a mystery when this case really gets off the ground.


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